Erase and Start Over

The resurfacing memories of a woman with PTSD.

Category Archives: Therapy


by Leave a comment

Breathing Through PTSD

5372890384_abd8ed155c

It’s hard to breathe. My veins feel carbonated; tiny bubbles with that same slight burn throughout my limbs and torso that I often feel against my tongue when drinking soda. I’m slightly disoriented, as if my airy blood is trying to make me float. My forearms are light. They can’t help but rise up toward my face. My chest is pounding. I must breathe. Just for a minute. I don’t want to do anything, think anything, feel anything. I just want to sit and breathe, very still, with my face buried in my hands.

I know it’ll pass. It always does. I just wish I could get through a day without freezing. Without feeling rising memories and having to involve my whole body to keep those thoughts at bay so I can focus on work, family, paying bills, doing dishes…

It’s hard to keep up with simple daily life when I must drop everything, without warning, and breathe for half an hour. But I do it. I must keep going. I begin my DBT exercises.

The floor is beneath my feet. I can feel the floor. The iPod is playing in my daughter’s room. I notice the song. I notice my daughter is humming to the song. The room is warm. I can feel the temperature of my skin, sending signals that the room is too hot. I open my eyes. In front of me is my coffee cup. It is solid. It is blue. It has a flower pattern. It is empty. I can smell overripe bananas. I remember that I meant to toss the bananas out this morning. My head turns toward the kitchen, and..

I’m out of it. I rise naturally toward the kitchen, not dizzy, not scared. I feel myself again. I toss the bananas, wrap up the trash and easily lift it to the front door. Okay, back to my day.


by Leave a comment

Inpatient

Four Winds

June 3, 2014

I guess I should begin by telling you where I am, but first let me just say how ridiculous it is that I have to ask permission to have a Q-tip to clean the water out of my ears after a shower. They’ll give me this pen and leave me alone for an hour to journal my thoughts, but heaven forbid I should be left alone with a dangerous cotton swab. Between you and me, I’m guessing I could do way more damage to myself with a pen, but I’m just the patient. What do I know.

I’m in a loony bin.

Okay, okay, I know that’s not fair. The accommodations are far from a cuckoo’s nest. Not quite hotel-like, but more of an upscale college dorm. The rooms are clean, with wall-to-wall low-nap blue carpeting. The beds are comfortable enough. Everyone has the exact same simple pine furniture – a nightstand, bed, small bureau, and a desk with a chair. For a minute there, I thought I wasn’t allowed to have a trash can, either, but when I saw that my roommate had a trash can, I asked for one, too, figuring the person who empties them must have forgotten to put it back. There’s a bathroom with a shower in every two-person bedroom. I am thankful for that. Some dorms make you walk down the hall in a robe to shared showers. I was surprised to find that the shower is pretty roomy with a nicer shower head than what I have at home. At least I only have to share it with one other person.

All the rooms come off a long, carpeted hallway that has attractive pictures on the wall of simple scenes with flowers or fishing boats. It smells nice, here. There are scent-diffusers placed around some of the public areas. They told me it was some kind of aromatherapy. Pleasant. A light mix of eucalyptus and lavender.

The public places include a game room with a long table on one side that could seat eight, and some soft armchairs with small tables on the other. There were a couple bookshelves filled with games and books, and a flat screen TV on the wall. The windows were huge, looking into the center courtyard between all the buildings on the property. It’s summer, so the trees are all full and the flowers profuse.

There’s a small kitchen with a table that could seat four, a refrigerator filled with lemonade, yogurt, and tea, a coffee pot with all the necessary java makings, a sink and dishwasher, and cupboards filled with hand-me-down table service. There’s even ice cream and sherbet in the freezer.

There’s also a large common room filled with couches and armchairs that is mostly used for group therapy sessions, but they said that on the weekends people can watch movies or sing with a karaoke machine. The windows here open out onto a sunny patio with wrought-iron patio furniture including big green umbrellas for shade.

My first impression when I arrived yesterday was one of relief. This place is a thousand times better than that psychiatric emergency room I came from. Today, though, I know it’s all gilding. The pictures cannot be moved, not even to set it a little straighter. They are glued to the walls. Someone walks in to check on me every 15 minutes, all day and all night. They woke me up last night and told me I couldn’t pull the covers so closely around my head because the person with the flashlight needs to quickly see I’m okay and move on to the next patient.

All of my belongings – except my clothes – are behind a front desk, and I have to ask for my hairdryer or purse. I cannot use a razor unless there’s a staff-woman free who can watch me use it. I’m not allowed to use my cellphone. I must stand in line and wait my turn to use the landline on the wall or the one behind the folding glass doors for a bit more privacy. I’m not allowed to have visitors other than my immediate family, and then only once a week.

I’m required to follow the schedule on the whiteboard, attend each meeting no matter how much I wish to just be left alone to think. I have to ask permission to sit outside in the fresh air. I need permission to go for a walk, and can only go if there are enough other patients who want to go at the same time and there’s an available staff person to escort us. I have to stand in line for my morning and evening pills, and if I want to sit in my room until the line dies down, a staff person will come find me and tell me to get in line. They are nice enough about it, but some of the staff look at us like we are cats they are trying to herd.

I’m in a hospital, no question, and I can’t leave until they say I can.


by Leave a comment

Checking In – La Parte Dos

shower_review_pilot_sc_florence_dsc03797

TRIGGER WARNING

Monday  June 2, 2014 12:30 p.m.

I was trembling from the time I left my office, through the cell phone calls from my car trying to find help, to the time I pulled into the garage of the medical office park. I felt physically sick and lightheaded, and my emotions were swinging from anger to trepidation to relief and back. I was going to get to talk to someone and get this all out of me, and everything would be back to normal tomorrow. I locked up the car and headed to where I thought the entrance was for the Capital District Psychiatric Center. Every step was a struggle. I wanted to sit down in the middle of the road and just cry. But I made it to the building and, after a little confusion, found the right entrance. The door was locked, so I pressed the buzzer and waited, wishing there was a bench to sit on.

The unprepossessing entrance was opened by a wary face who only let me in as far as the vestibule, his eyes looking me up and down as if I could be hiding a weapon. I lifted my eyebrows, a bit surprised, and he explained that they had to be very careful about what went past those doors. He asked my purpose, and made sure I understood that if I admitted myself, I couldn’t leave until the doctors gave permission for me to leave.

I didn’t see a problem with that – I knew I wasn’t a danger to myself or anyone else, I just needed to talk to someone and I couldn’t wait six weeks for a regular therapist to be available. I was sure I’d be out in a few hours, so I signed the book and let him look through my purse, and then he unlocked the next door and let me in, locking the door behind me.

I had never been in an emergency room like this one. Being locked in made me apprehensive enough, but the place was dingy. An old box T.V. was attached up high in one corner. The wood and cloth chairs were bolted together and to the floor. There was only one wooden table with rounded corners, also bolted to the floor. The dull fabric looked stained. The glass door behind me had small lines running through it – some kind of security glass, I guess. It was cloudy with greasy fingerprints and smudges. I wouldn’t want to touch that door handle unless I was wearing gloves. There was another door to the left, locked with a small window at eye level, and a third door just like it straight in front of me. To the right was a reception area, with a staff person sitting behind more security glass. There was a long hallway to the right, with several gray metal doors with small windows.

Everything looked grubby, and there was an occasional waft of unwashed human bodies floating in the cold air-conditioned space. Curled up on a chair near the reception desk was a woman with unkempt hair, covered in a blanket up to her chin, sleeping. There was a litter of small brown paper bags on the chair next to her, and a half-eaten apple.

The staff person who admitted me regained my attention and took me through the door straight ahead. On the other side was a row of three closet-sized rooms, each with a table and a couple chairs. He gestured to one and explained that I would begin with some paperwork, and then there would be an initial intake interview. Then he left me alone with a pen and clipboard.

I pushed back my regret as I reached for the paperwork. Finally, something that made this place feel a little more like a legitimate hospital. Of course they’d get the money-part right. I filled in my insurance, took emergency contact numbers out of my cell phone, and was just finishing up the last form when a man and a woman walked in, smiling their welcomes.

I shook their hands and they walked me through the next steps. One was a social worker, the other a staff member trained in peer counseling and emergency aid. They were both kind and intelligent, so I relaxed a bit, ready to trust the process. The relief started to outweigh the trepidation.

When they asked why I was here, I gave them the short version first as background. I was abducted by a parent at 3; we were always on the run – went to 5 elementary schools; she beat the hell out of us with a metal cooking spoon and whatever else she got her hands on; I was a teenage runaway; I got pregnant and married at 19; that marriage ended with me in the hospital and him in jail; and my real father found me when I was 21; that I’d been having nightmares my whole life.

Then I told them what was new that brought me in here: that my step-father had died the week before, and I went to visit my estranged mother at my sisters’ request. That my sisters and I had gotten to talking, and that one sister revealed she had been raped – in our mother’s presence – when she was 9 years old. And after that I began having memories I had never had before. That I was afraid I might have been there when it happened. That I was so angry and had all these emotions I was struggling to control. I told them I just needed to talk to someone and get it all out because I felt completely wrong, like I would explode if I didn’t do something, anything.

They asked me if I had ever contemplated suicide, and I told them of course, just like anyone else, but I wouldn’t do it because I have two children I’m responsible for. That worried them at first, but once I explained that Demi was 29 and Daisy would be 16 in a few days, and that Demi and my ex-husband could take care of Daisy in my absence, then they were reassured. I did say that sometimes I thought that if I could just hang on for two more years, until Daisy went to college, then I could go away, perhaps forever. And that was partly why I was here, so I could make it the next two years, because the way I had been feeling and acting this past weekend, since Meg’s revelation, I wasn’t sure I could make it two weeks, much less two years.

As I’m writing this, I realize how dramatic that sounds, but when I was facing those two people, I didn’t want to hide anything. I wanted help, real help, so I quietly told them the truth. I tried not to cry, but I did reach for a tissue and did my best to keep my cheeks dry and speak calmly. I wished ruefully that someone else would take care of me for awhile. I have been taking care of someone else since I was six years old. I was just so tired, too tired to be a strong, normal, responsible person anymore.

They took plenty of notes but still managed to give me their full attention. They made me feel like they really heard me and they cared. I felt like I was finally going to get help. They said I would need to wait in the waiting room for a little bit, while they reached out to my primary care physician. They also took my purse and cell phone, apologizing and explaining that they would be locked up safe and that they couldn’t have those things in with other patients. They would try not to be too long and would come back to me with some next steps.

So I went back out to the waiting room, relieved and obedient. An hour later, I was a little impatient but amused. Just like a hospital, the wait is always longer than the doctor visit. I watched other patients come and go, some staying with me waiting. A couple of them spoke with me, freely telling me their stories. I have a neon sign on my forehead that says “I want to hear your life story” and often people obey that sign, even if all I want to do is crawl under a rock and deal with my own problems.

I was surprised to still be in that small room with people who were quietly rocking or walking and talking to themselves at 5 p.m., when they handed out brown paper bags of cheese sandwiches and applesauce. I asked if I could call my daughters at that point, because they were expecting me home from work soon. They let me get the numbers off my cell phone, but I had to wait while someone fetched it, then I had to keep my hands and cell phone inside the tiny window on the receptionist’s desk. No cells allowed for a single second in the waiting room. I used the landline provided for patients to call my girls and explain where I was. I promised I’d call them as soon as I knew anything further.

I went to use the bathroom and immediately knew I had made a mistake. No way did I belong in this place. This wasn’t a hospital, it was a minimum security prison. There was a shower in there with a torn black curtain and a floor that was too grimy for bare feet. There was toilet paper but no trash can and no paper towels and no mirror and – what was worse – no lock on the door. I went back to the receptionist to explain I was on my period but there was no trash can, and he told me I had to wrap my ladies things in toilet paper and put it in the cardboard box of trash under the TV in the waiting room, the worst place for privately throwing something away because the whole room was facing that direction. He handed me a tiny bar of soap, like what you’d get in a hotel, and a rough white washcloth he said I could use to dry my hands. He said to just leave it in the bathroom.

I was in that waiting room a total of seven hours before one of the intake staffers spoke to me again. By then, my anxiety was higher than it was when I had walked in.


by Leave a comment

Stigma

stigma glen close

I have many more good days than bad days, now. Today is a little in-between. It was hard to write last night’s post. I do get frustrated with myself for having bad days at all, and to those who believe I lose credibility by telling this story, well, part of me agrees with you. It was nearly 40 years ago, for heaven’s sake. I’m perfectly safe, have been safe for decades. I’m a professional and a mother, with many responsibilities. I have other things to do with my time than relive memories I never knew I had. I don’t have time for numbness, staring into space, feeling fear rush through my veins for no reason, or getting persistent pokes from unwelcome memories at inconvenient times. I just want to shake myself and say “get over it, already!”

The most pernicious thing about stigma is that many of us with PTSD, or other mental health issues, actually buy into it. We stigmatize ourselves just as much as others do. I don’t need someone telling me to get over it because I tell myself that almost every day. When I came back to work and found no flowers, not even a welcome-back or get-well-soon card from my coworkers, I wasn’t surprised. I had been in a mental hospital for a month. No one gets flowers in today’s world for that.

If I had been in the hospital a month with a broken limb or appendicitis or something, I would have been welcomed back warmly. Instead, there was very little acknowledgement that I had been gone at all. Where I had been or why were questions that were studiously avoided. I have no idea what people did or didn’t know. I am grateful for the coworker that gave me a hug, and the other one who took me to lunch that day, but I don’t mind admitting that it would have made my return much easier if there were some daisies or something on my desk to let me know I had been missed, that people cared that I was okay. Instead, I felt like I had let me team down by being gone so long, so jumped into work like nothing had happened so I could pick up my slack. I kicked myself for being silly over a stupid thing like a get-well-card.

Logically, I know it’s not inappropriate to wish I had been more warmly welcomed back. I know that it’s normal  to struggle over these new memories. My emotions and unconscious acceptance of social stigma aside, with everything I’ve been through it would be no surprise if I were still in the hospital now, five months later. Think about it. I am a person who has known more violence in the first 25 years of my life than most people ever experience in a lifetime. I had come to terms with all that, had accepted it and moved on, and even helped others. Now to find out that on top of everything else, I had been raped as a child? And one of my sisters, too? And that my mother – probably due to her own struggles – allowed these things to happen, and was even present? That there may have been drugs involved?

I think it’s understandable for me to have felt that enough is enough. I’ve had more than my fair share, and last June I needed to stop the world and get off for a bit. The important thing is that I got back on the world, and relatively quickly, all things considered. Sure, it’ll be several more months before I’m completely back to normal, whatever that is, but I’m happy and working and taking care of my family and setting great future goals.

Growing up the way I did, it’s a miracle I’m not in jail, a junkie, an alcoholic, a prostitute, or dead. I beat the statistics. How many teenage runaways go to college and graduate with honors in just three years? How many children who grow up in households with 15 years of recurring, unpredictable violence are able to break the cycle and successfully raise smart, healthy, happy children of their own?

I want to be the best possible mother to my girls. I want to have mastery in my career and be a pillar of strength to the people in my life and my community. I did the right thing by checking myself into the hospital, so I could achieve those goals. I stand by that decision.

Of course I will continue to have good days and bad days for awhile. This is all still relatively new to me. Of course I should continue to reach out for help with my mental and emotional health, as much as I do for my physical health. That’s what a responsible person does.

One day, regular mental health checkups will be as normal and commonplace as regular physicals. One day, our healthcare system and insurance companies will realize that humanity is a sentient species, much more than just physical mammals, and our healthcare should reflect that.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep writing about my experience with PTSD both in and out of the hospital. Hopefully, this inside view will help people understand and accept that it is normal and expected that a human being will have mental health issues. Hopefully my story will help the movement to end the stigma. After all, silence is the enemy of change.


by 4 Comments

Self-Destructive Behaviors

TRIGGER WARNING

We’ve all done this. Showing up late to work every day with an unconscious desire to be fired, even though being fired would be the worst thing right then. Spilling all your skeletons out on a first date with a really great guy, ruining a future before it’s begun. Not paying bills on time or over-extending credit cards. Saying yes to one more drink, then driving home anyway. Well – that’s both self-destructive and potentially other-person-destructive.

Point is, teenagers aren’t the only ones with frequent self-destructive behaviors. The difference between teens and adults is that we know better, do it anyway, and often don’t get caught or held accountable. Are we really going to shake a finger in our own face, saying shame-on-you for getting that extra credit card, extra drink, extra pint of Ben & Jerry’s?

Well, yes.

I don’t know about you, but I’m shaking a finger in my own face all the time. Truth is, my own guilt and shame is not enough of a deterrent. I’m sure my mother shakes a finger in her own face all the time, but she’s still drunk before noon on a regular basis. How can I hold myself accountable when I feel like I deserve whatever punishment is coming to me?

Logically, I know I have personal power. Of course I can lose weight. Of course I can clean out my fridge with a sponge instead of my stomach. Of course I can find a way to make time to exercise. So why do I spend countless hours watching season after season of West Wing, curled up in bed with popcorn and coffee?

I’m being self-destructive. Why? Depression. PTSD. Low self-worth. Suicidal tendencies. Am I going to commit suicide? No, of course not. I am fortunate enough to have three amazing sisters and two wonderful children, all with more unconditional love for me than most people get. It would devastate them if I ever did anything like that. I would never hurt them.

That doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. It has crossed my mind numerous times that in two more years, my youngest will be on her own, off in college. I’ll have an empty nest. If I pay down all my debt by then and save for my cremation expenses, my girls won’t be financially burdened. It would be so easy to plan this out. I could drive right off that curved bridge I travel every day home from work. Thelma and Louise style. I could research online to find the right mix of over-the-counter meds and put myself to sleep forever, just as I prayed would happen that night when I was 15.

I told my psychiatrist all this. I wasn’t sobbing or being hysterical. I just calmly explained that I’m done. I’m not almost 50 years old, I’m almost 100 years old. I have lived more life in my first 22 years than most people will ever experience. I am not just tired, I’m exhausted. I have been responsible for someone else’s needs since I was 6 years old. And then there’s the violence. Really, how much violence can one person take in a lifetime?  The injustice of knowing that no one is going to pay for what they’ve done, and the helpless realization that even if that were possible, it wouldn’t make a difference. I would still have to get up every day, go to work, clean my house, pay bills, take care of others and know that there is no one to take care of me but myself.

I just can’t be responsible anymore, not even to me. The weight is too much for too long. I have taken care of my mother, my children, my husbands, my community through volunteer work, and even served the people of NYS as a public servant. I’ve done my part to make the world a better place. It’s someone else’s turn now. I can’t do it anymore. I’m done.

I think if I really were a hundred years old, no one would have a problem with me being done. I sometimes think if I just explain to my family how I feel, that they would understand that some people age before their time and that’s just the way it is. I think they would be sad, but after a year or so of getting used to the idea, we’d all say our goodbyes and I would leave.

My psychiatrist was pretty calm about this. He raised an eyebrow and asked how often do I have this particular fantasy? I almost laughed out loud. In one fell swoop, he let me know that I’m not the only one who has ever thought like this, and that it’s a self-indulgent dream that deserves to be discredited. And he knew that I knew better. He’s worth the extra drive it takes for me to get to his office, compared to doctors that are closer to home.

I think what hurts families the most is the surprise of suicide. If it’s planned, like in Oregon, then everyone has time to discuss it, prepare, even change minds. I think it’s a shame that talking about suicidal thoughts is so frowned upon in our society. Why not stand up and say “I’ve had all I can stand and I won’t take it anymore?” There’d probably be fewer suicides if we talked about it more.

Well, thinking is not doing in my case. Yes, I know that it should be taken seriously anytime someone even hints that it could be a possibility, but truthfully I can’t do it. I love my girls and my sisters too much. I do want to see how their lives turn out, and to help them achieve their dreams any way that I can. I’m not too tired to do that.

Meanwhile, I have to stop being self-destructive in other ways. Writing about it helps. Talking about it with my family helps. Making the time to do things I’m good at, so I can feel accomplished, really helps. That’s part of my treatment. DBT. But that’s for another post. Right now, I have a writing workshop I’m going to. See? I won’t be in bed with Netflix today.


by Leave a comment

Checking In

TRIGGER WARNING

Monday morning, June 2, 2014

albanybuilding

I was on automatic. I showered, dressed, had coffee, drove my youngest to school. My responsibilities were completed in numb automation, but there was a silent struggle going on in my mind and body. I wanted to stop and scream – she was raped and I was there! I was trembling with anger. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to hop in the car and drive to North Carolina and look that woman in the face and demand her apology, demand she get on her knees and beg forgiveness from all of us sisters. I wanted to throw her in a rehab facility and swallow the key, then smash every bottle she has in the house into the kitchen sink.

I parked and hung my employee tag on the rear view. Gathered my things, locked the car and walked to the elevator. I let my eyes follow the trees through the elevator glass, idly pretending I was climbing up them, like I always imagine when riding those elevators. I stepped out and walked past Congress park, as usual, and idly wondered for the umpteenth time what the city was doing with that old fountain, now surrounded by signs of construction. I paused at the traffic signal, waiting, staring up at the walls of the New York State Capitol building.

The powerful structure rose several stories above my head, unashamedly representative of a monarch’s seat, with red-orange turrets and intricate carvings. The building usually centered me, its carefully crafted beauty inside and out reminding me that someone, somewhere, cared deeply about a good job well done. Just a few weeks ago, I was among a handful of people negotiating a $22 billion budget for 700 school districts, in a small room on the first floor of that beautiful building. Not a good job well done.

I didn’t want to walk in there. The halls echoed with the powerlessness of good people trying to do the right thing. Politics too often trumps proven research, and about a quarter of the decisions made are to support a re-election campaign rather than the needs of the people. Much as I loved the building, I couldn’t stand facing another impotent day of work. Fighters don’t belong on hamster wheels.

But there was nothing I could do about it. A single mom doesn’t just quit her job. Policy analysts are a dime a dozen in Albany. There was nowhere else to go.

The beeping of the crosswalk signal brought me out of my reverie. I walked across the street, pulling my security pass out of my purse. My eyes were wet with helplessness. I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t call the police. I couldn’t stop in the middle of the street and scream. I couldn’t protect my sister. I ran. I ran and left her there.

I made it to the policy pit on the fourth floor mezzanine, dropping my bag on my desk. One of my co-workers got up to hug me, saying she was sorry for my loss. With her arms around my shoulders, I realized I had almost forgotten about my step-father, whose ashes sat before us at the wake just four days ago. I felt ashamed anew, and couldn’t hold it back anymore. I clung to her, sobbing my heart out, much to the surprise of everyone in the room. The story just spilled out – I told her that I had just found out that my sister had been raped at 9 years old, that Mom just watched.

I backed away, realizing I shouldn’t have said that out loud, and saw the shock and concern on my coworkers’ faces. I gulped and pulled it all back together. Grabbing a tissue off my desk and drying my face, I apologized and waved everyone off, telling them I was fine and just needed to focus on work.

I sat down to sort through my missed emails from the last week, but focus was not coming to me. Impatiently, I opened my snail mail instead, and automatically began sorting. Then I sorted all the files that were scattered untidily all over my desk. Then I got some paper towels and cleanser from the bathroom and started cleaning my desk. I scrubbed the phone, my keyboard, even my chair. And when there was nothing left to clean, not a single paper out of place, I stared back at the computer and realized there was no way I could understand a single piece of legislation today. I emailed my supervisor that I was going home, shut off my computer, told my coworkers that I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling well, and left. I didn’t even make it to noon.

I drove two blocks before I realized I had no idea where I was going. I pulled into an empty parking spot on the street and called a therapist I had seen the year before. She could see me in a couple weeks. I googled more therapists on my phone. Three, four, six weeks before anyone could see me. One of them told me that if it were an emergency, I could go to the Capital District Psychiatric Center, and check myself in. I googled it and drove there, figuring I’d talk with someone for a few hours, feel better, and be back to work the next day.

I didn’t realize that it would be a month before I saw the Capitol building again.


by Leave a comment

That’ll Be Five Cents, Please

September 24, 2014  6:05 a.m.

I’m done. No more therapists. This last one was the last straw. I had complete control of the room, and she didn’t even know it. It was so easy to get her talking about any subject I chose, and sit back and watch the entertainment.

Not so entertaining when I had to give her my $20 co-pay after the dubious pleasure of listening to her talk for an hour.

I knew it wasn’t going to work the very first visit, when she mentioned being scared when a police officer came to her door looking for a juvenile who’d escaped custody. Her eyes got wide, her eyebrows lifted, and she went on and on about how normal it was to be surprised and nervous upon opening a door and seeing a cop standing there.

“Of course, I completely understand. Perfectly natural,” I told her, with my most sympathetic expression. She beamed at me, kept talking, and ended by saying she knew we’d get along just fine.

I handed her a twenty and rolled my eyes all the way to the car. Scared of a uniform? How would she react to be arrested? Or to be kidnapped, raped, beaten, and nearly strangled to death for that matter? She’d need therapy just for giving me therapy. This woman has about as much experience in PTSD treatment as I have in rocket science. Which is to say, zilch.

But none of them do. I have told my story to numerous therapists over the past twenty years. They are appalled, concerned, sympathetic, but clueless as to what to do about it. I’ll see a therapist for a couple months, then throw my hands up and swear I’ll never see another one.

Then, a couple years later, I’m back trying again. Like Charlie Brown making an appointment to see Lucy, who is as convincing as ever about that stupid football, and has no qualms about charging her nickel.

I’m sitting up in bed, typing this on an over-large laptop that I bought on Black Friday without doing my research first. I really hate Windows 8.

My coffee is getting cold. Black with a touch of stevia. I don’t want to get up and put it in the microwave, though. As soon as my daughters see me, they’ll ask me for something, and as much as I love them dearly, right now I just don’t want the pressure of even the tiniest responsibility. I’m done.

I’m too tired to keep typing. I think I’ll go back to sleep for twenty minutes, and then get ready for work.